By Haylee Shull

We spread my grandfather’s ashes
at my family’s peach orchard—
the same plot of land
where Carlee and Derek got married
the summer before, the peaches
plump and weighing down branches,
the same plot of land
where my aunt and I
got the car stuck in the mud,
my grandfather yelling
from the backseat while we pushed
but on that April morning
we all stood in the grass holding
programs pressed with wildflowers
and bible verses
it was too early and too cold
for the peach trees to blossom yet
and I kept thinking about how
I had never seen them so barren before
their limbs open low and wide
like a row of wishbones
I don’t remember crying but I remember
how my mother squeezed my hand and then
leaned down to kiss my sister’s head
Riley played a song on his guitar
while I stared down at my muddy shoes
I kept thinking that one day
it would be me playing a song
standing in the wet grass
between a row of peach trees
to memorialize the death of my father
and maybe I should start
paying better attention
during my guitar lessons
because I don’t want to mess it up
and then Jay led a prayer
because it was always Jay
who said the prayers
I couldn’t hear what he was saying
maybe because of the wind but maybe
I couldn’t believe in God anyway
but I bowed my head and closed my eyes
rain misting on bare arms
it would be months before the peach trees
would bear any fruit
but for a moment
I swear I could feel it: the soft earth
under my feet in the summer
sun beating against the back
of my neck and the honeybees
floating along lazy in the heat
caterpillars circling around and
around my index finger before
inching back up the bark
blackberry cobbler at sunset
with my grandfather and
the echoes of dogs barking
chasing ghosts late into the night—
I haven’t been back to the orchard
since we said goodbye to my grandfather
but Lou still has a paper bag
full of peaches for me
every time I come home.

Haylee Shull is an administrative assistant for the PACE foster care program. She has two cats and enjoys reading.

By Brook Scalzo

cleft

\ ˈkleft \

Noun

: a space or opening made by or as if by splitting

Adjective

: split, divided, or partially divided into two

The ultrasound technician said, “It’s going to be okay,” but I didn’t hear her. I could only hear the crinkling of the paper beneath me. Scott held my hand. I was bare, exposed, and vulnerable, as strangers stared at me, awaiting a response. I knew. I knew even before she told me. I saw it seconds before the laughter turned into an awkward silence while more practitioners entered the room. 

A tiny black line on the ultrasound. A cleft. 

I was twenty weeks pregnant and at my required anatomy scan, as I was of advanced maternal age and complications with pregnancy were more likely. I had gone into this appointment optimistic. And while the pregnancy had been difficult on me, genetic testing and other resources had led me to believe I was carrying a healthy baby. 

The specialist started rambling to fill the silence. “It really is so different these days. It’s just a quick surgery a few days after birth,” she said, her words trailing off. “It’s just cosmetic.” 

Lies. 

Scott smiled politely and nodded along in hopeful optimism. I knew better. I knew too much. At that moment, a decade of pediatric nursing experience and hundreds of textbook pages flooded my brain. Pain, hearing loss, syndromes, surgeries, orthodontics, reflux, aspiration, heart defects, self-esteem, developmental disabilities and feeding tubes all swam in my mind around one little word: cleft. 

I immediately decided to bypass the first stage of grief and went straight to anger. No denial for me; I was plagued with too much information. So, I decided to be appalled. I was appalled about the process, appalled at the lies, and appalled that I didn’t even get to pull my pants up before they lightheartedly delivered this earth-shattering news. 

Like a child with a broken toy, I was desolate, and I wanted my mom. I needed her to fix it. Later, she stood over me, 20 weeks pregnant crying in the bathtub, and matter-of-factly asked, “Brook, do you want this baby?”  

I paused longer than I am proud to admit. “Yes,” I said. 

“Okay,” she said, “then, enough of this.” 

I’m not sure what I felt as she helped me out of the tub.  

It’s of no real consequence. Because it wasn’t about me anymore.  

I was a mom. 

Statistics. They’re so boring when you are not one of them. Prevalence of cleft lip and palate is “common,” with more than 200,000 cases each year in the United States alone. So, we should all be aware, educated, and prepared, right? Not even close. I learned in an instant the line between nurse and mother should never need to be crossed, but there I was, research papers covering my bed and terrified to read them. Instead, I shuffled the pages together and shoved them in a drawer. 

I wasn’t ready. 

Arkansas Children’s Hospital, my home for 10 years as a nurse, now wore a new face. My phone rang early the next day. “I saw your name come across my desk and I wanted to reach out immediately to confirm an appointment with the Cleft Team,” said the voice on the other side. It was the Ear, Nose, and Throat specialty nurse who I had worked with on the COVID Hotline just a few months prior. I had an appointment with the Cleft Team at the hospital the very next day. The place where I had cared for countless patients was now ready to care for me. 

But I still wasn’t ready. 

The familiar halls that I could navigate in the dark suddenly felt like a maze. The familiar smiles were wasted. I wasn’t home anymore. I was lost, and it would take a team of doctors, nurses, friends, and my family to help me find my way back. Vulnerability. That was the difference. Stripped of my badge and scrubs; I was stripped of my superpowers. The role reversal from nurse to patient was debilitating. My nursing philosophy and passion for my career forever changed that day. The greatest honor I will ever know is to be trusted with someone’s child, and now I would now have to do what thousands of parents had done for me: trust them. 

My mom and I were led to a cramped room with a tiny table that held a thick binder. A welcoming, masked face greeted us and began to review the contents of the book. I do not remember a single word that was said. I sat staring at the corner while a friendly, young voice danced around my mother’s harsher, but polite tones. I missed it. I missed the whole thing. In retrospect, I should’ve waited or asked for a do-over. Because, for the life of me, I cannot even remember meeting one of the most influential men in my daughter’s young life, Dr. Adam Johnson. 

Afterward, depression hit me hard, just as the stages of grief predicted. I lived in a numb daze for weeks. Tears filled my eyes with even a glance at my bump. I felt guilt and shame. What had I done? How had I already messed this up? Bilateral cleft lip and palate, but what else?

Wait. Watch. Hope. Prepare. 

My closest friends, family and colleges were extremely supportive, and the condolences kept coming: 

“It’s amazing what they can do.” 

“It’s just one little surgery.”

“She won’t even remember.”

“God chose you, because he knew you could do it.”

All were well-intentioned, supportive, and all filled with love, but I just needed to someone to say, “This sucks.” I needed someone to share my pain, hurt and fear with me. My mom and sister began researching for the best plastic surgeons in the country while I laid in a dark room. They worked tirelessly to navigate and pave a way for me, but I just couldn’t bring myself to even look at a photo of a cleft baby. 

I. Just. Wasn’t. Ready.

There were two very long weeks until the next “big day”. The hospital’s specialists would perform a fetal echo to rule out any heart defects, which are common in babies with cleft. That word again: “common.”  Nothing about this experience felt common. I went to the appointment alone. Walking through the halls of Children’s without my cotton armor and checking-in at the Heart Station desk. It was the same desk at which I sat during nursing school, registering patients for the Cardiology Clinic. A familiar face checked me in with a worried look in her eyes, but she said nothing of my circumstances. We exchanged pleasantries and I took a seat. 

A new stage of grief began in that waiting room, bargaining. I begged and pleaded silently and fervently for this baby’s heart to be okay. “If this one thing can be okay,” I promised myself, “then I can handle everything else. I will stop moping and prepare to advocate for this child. Please, let it be okay.”  I watched mothers tend to their children in wheelchairs and on ventilators – something so common in my career – suddenly hitting too close to home. I was called back quickly by more familiar faces who shifted from smiles to serious expressions when they realized I was the patient. 

Once again, I sat in the dim, cold room and hiked up my dress as the ultrasound tech covered my legs with a sheet, keeping my stomach exposed. The test took eight minutes, but it could have just as easily been eight hours. She looked up from her screen. “Okay! That’s the fastest one I have ever done!” As she closed the door, I could hear her telling her collogues of her eight-minute speed-run as they cheered, while I sat in the dark, waiting. A few minutes later, the doctor entered with a grin on his face, turned on the light, and said “Her heart looks great.”  My negotiations had paid off! My prayers answered. This one shift, this one piece of news was enough to get me on to acceptance. 

I was ready.  

I started slowly. I opened the binder I had been given weeks ago. Business cards filled the first sheet. Adam Johnson, M.D., Ph.D., Assistant Professor at the University of Arkansas for Medical Sciences Department of Pediatrics and Sarah Valdez, BSN, RN, CPN, ENT, specialty nurse. They would become my guiding lights throughout this journey. Then came example before-and-after surgery photos, with babies as cute with clefts as they were when repaired. I smiled. 

The next section of the binder was from 2005. A big red flag. Was this the best information that just happened to be old or was there no current literature? It turns out there is plenty of slow-progressing research, but how would a parent without a master’s degree in nursing know how to find it or what it meant? The pages were filled with glossaries, diagrams, and medical terminology, showing the intricacies of the nose, mouth, and palate. It briefly covered feeding cleft-affected babies, the specialists that would make up our Cleft Team, surgery schedules, hearing and speech development, psychological impacts, and financial information. All information I would eventually study and memorize, but that day I only highlighted three sentences.

“Be strong, for it is from you that your child with draw strength.”

“You must instill self-esteem and project a bright future for your child.”

“Above all else, be kind and patient with yourself…You will begin to see beyond the cleft to the love, the sense of fun and mischief, the wonder and sensitivity, and all the traits that define the unique character of your child.”

I smiled again.

After a week or two I was able to memorize the binder of information. I pulled the stack of papers out of the drawer and began planning to meet my baby’s special needs head-on. 

Scott, her father, on the other hand, is not in the medical profession and it was very hard to find up-to-date literature that wasn’t quantitative medical research. If I could barely understand this information, how were other parents supposed to? Every hospital and every surgeon had a different philosophy and different rules. It was difficult to find a gold-standard of care, much less explain what the future held to my partner and family. 

So, I turned to social media. The Facebook Cleft Groups welcomed us with open arms. We learned more from other parents than we could ever learn from reading. I caution you, however, to find a Cleft Team that you trust and use social media only for guidance and support, not medical advice. The same goes for this book. Every cleft-affected child is different, and you will need to find what works for you and your team with evidence-based guidance, trial and error and advocacy. This book will not be filled with the strongest research and evidence-based practices. It is my experience as a nurse and cleft mom, but it cannot take the place of medical recommendations. Cleft parents become fierce advocates with strong opinions, ones that may very easily contrast with mine. I hope it serves as a guide, fills you with hope and shows you that you can feel your feelings. 

You are allowed to struggle and still be the strong parent your child needs. 

A dark introduction to what will hopefully be a positive and inspiring book? Maybe, but it needs to be written. You need to know that it is truly okay to not be okay. You need to grieve the loss of a baby that will not face these challenges. Be productive and aware throughout your grief though, that you are on a timeline now. Work hard to get to acceptance before you meet your baby, or, even better, do it sooner so you can enjoy your pregnancy. I couldn’t do this. Not completely. Not until I met Penny.  

I imagine you might also be in a stage of grief if you sought out this book. That is why I thought sharing my experiences could help you understand that you are not alone in yours. You will soon face harder challenges than you could have anticipated, but you will also have a beautiful, happy, playful, inquisitive baby who has a wide smile that will melt you. 

Knowing what I know now, what we have been through, I wouldn’t change a thing. I will teach her that being comfortable with yourself is the most attractive thing in the world and allow her to celebrate her scars, uniqueness, and victories, as well as her challenges and failures. I would take nothing from her, except the pain. 

Brook Scalzo, M.N.Sc., BFA, RN, CPN, is a Clinical Instructor in the College of Nursing. 

By Reade Zodrow

Fiction

Paul Miller was in his robe lying on the couch as his roommate was leaving for work.

“It’s weird seeing you up this early,” his roommate said.

“I kept staying up later and later until now I wake up at 6am and go to bed around 11 p.m. like a normal person.” 

“Big plans today?”

“The usual, Netflix and a nap,” Paul said.

“You know, eventually you’re going to get caught. What if Meta sues you for everything they paid you?”

“It’s been almost two years. Nothing could possibly happen.”

“I hope that’s true. I can’t pay rent on my own,” his roommate said and left.

In June 2020, Paul was hired at Meta to work remotely in their website programming department. The company was supposed to send a computer for him to use. After a few days, when it hadn’t arrived, Paul emailed his boss and received an out of office message. Over the next week, Paul kept sending emails only to get out of office messages with no return date. After two weeks, Paul received his first paycheck. He emailed HR and they said they would get back to him, but never did. He followed up again with HR only to receive another out of office message. It seemed Paul had been lost in the sea of empty positions brought about by the Great Resignation. Meta was full of senior leaders retiring early to lie on the beach rather than risk dying of Covid.

When a month passed by, Paul decided he’d wait for someone in the company to contact him. After six months of paychecks coming in without a word from HR or his department, he felt complacent, no longer worried he’d get caught. At first, and for a long time, Paul felt guilty about taking a paycheck he hadn’t earned. Then he began justifying to himself that it was better for him to stay home to avoid spreading Covid. When the vaccines rolled out, he came up with new justifications – the Cambridge Analytica scandal, Facebook profiting off user data, and social media creating inferiority complexes in users who cannot live up to the lavish lifestyles displayed by the influencers they follow.

After falling asleep on the couch, Paul woke up and decided to grab a snack. As he opened the fridge, his phone rang. He quickly reached into his pocket to silence it but accidentally answered the phone. He heard a muffled voice saying, “Hello? Hello?”

Paul put the phone to his ear. “Hi, yes, this is Paul Miller.”

“Paul, so wonderful to talk to you. This is Veronica from Meta’s Chicago Office. I looked through the directory and saw your name listed in the Programming Department.”

“Who are you?” 

“Veronica, from the app team. I work at Meta from a satellite office. I have meetings at the main office tomorrow and was hoping you’d show me around. I’m afraid of getting lost in that gigantic building. We can share what we’ve both been working on.”

Paul’s heart nearly stopped. Someone at Meta had called him after all this time. “Ah, yes, that would be great. I-I-I’d be happy to meet you.”

“Wonderful. I’ll find you at the main entrance at 8 a.m.?”

“I’ll be there,” he said and hung up in a daze.

He thought about calling her back and saying he had a surgery scheduled he forgot about, but what if she started asking around about him? It would be better to be at work and appear normal. She wanted him to show her around, but for his interview he had gone straight from the lobby to a conference room on the fourth floor. He wasn’t sure if that’s where his department was and he definitely had no clue where his office was located, if there even was one still reserved for him. For the next several hours, he panicked about being caught.

When his roommate returned from work, Paul told him about the phone call. “What should I do? Assume a new identity and flee the country?”

“In this day and age, thanks to Big Tech, there’s no way of dropping off the radar. Everywhere we go, everything we do is tracked and recorded. Why don’t you put in your notice with HR and quit?”

“What happens if they try to notify my boss or look up my performance evaluations to see if I can be rehired. They could check the keycard system and discover I never entered the building.”

For the rest of the night, Paul watched videos on Facebook and Instagram posted by workers to map out the building. The first floor had the cafeteria, gym, and a relaxation corner with massage chairs. The second floor and third floors were filled with a mix of cubicles, open workspaces, and single offices. The fourth was reserved for the C-suite. He noted where the conference rooms were located, created a diagram of the maze of cubicles on the second floor, and matched as many names to faces as he could. There was a message from a few days ago wishing Larry in accounting a restful vacation this week. Paul printed off a piece of paper with his own name on it to tape in front of Larry’s nameplate.

When the sun rose, Paul had only dozed off for a couple hours, yet he felt wired from adrenaline. He quickly shaved and showered. He put on the same suit he’d worn to his interview. He wanted to go unnoticed, which he didn’t expect to be too hard. He had always been average. Now his averageness would become useful. He had a common name- Paul Miller- which appeared right in the middle of lists, easily skimmed over. In high school, he maintained a 3.0 GPA. He was practically invisible, which is one of the reasons he thought he’d gone unnoticed by Meta for so long. He should have been a bank robber as no one would pick him out of a lineup. He dug his badge out from the junk drawer and drove to work for the first time in two years since being hired.

He arrived early and waited in the lobby. He brought a mask but no one else was wearing one. He didn’t want to stick out so he shoved it in his pocket. He tried not to make eye contact with the employees passing through security. A woman stepped through the front door who looked around the lobby. She was obviously new. He approached her.

“Veronica?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said and held out her hand. 

“I’m Paul. Great to meet you. Please go ahead,” he said and gestured to the security line. He wanted her to go first so she would have already passed through if a guard asked if this was his first day. She was screened, had her badge scanned, and was allowed through. Paul approached the metal detector, holding his keys and phone above his head. He stepped through. The guard scanned the badge hanging from Paul’s neck. The scanner blinked red. The guard scanned another time. Red again. Veronica looked back from the lobby with a look of concern on her face.

“It always bugs out,” Paul told the guard. “My manager ordered me a new one.”

“Either broken or has never been activated. You’ll need to report to the Security Office later today,” the guard said and waved him through the gate.

“What was that?” Veronica asked.

“No problem at all, just chatting with the guard,” Paul smiled. Thinking on the spot was not a strong suit for him. “What would you like to see first? The relaxation corner?” 

“I’d like to go to my office to drop off my purse and computer.”

“Of course,” Paul said. “We have guest offices on the third floor. That’s where I’m located as well.”

As they got off the elevator, Paul visualized the layout of the floor. He turned right, past the whiteboard, and came to a series of cubicles. He spotted the Office Coordinator from one of the Facebook postings, a blond woman in her mid-thirties.

“Hi Jennie,” he said. 

She looked confused but luckily didn’t stop. They came to the row of guest offices.

“I’m going to turn my light on in my office so people know I’m here and then I’ll be right back,” Paul said. 

He practically sprinted to Larry’s office. He pulled out the nametag from his coat pocket and taped it in front of Larry’s name. He pressed down on the door handle. Locked! Why hadn’t he thought of that? Of course the door would be locked. He needed to find someone to open it. He ran around the floor until he found a janitor mopping up a spill in the breakroom. 

“Hey, I locked my keys in my office. Could you open it for me?”

The janitor side-eyed him while putting up wet floor signs. He followed Paul back to the office.

“This is your office? I thought Larry was here?” 

Paul held up his badge next to the nametag that read Paul Miller. 

The janitor sighed, unlocked the door, and left. 

Paul turned on the light. There were family pictures everywhere and drawings from Larry’s kids. Paul began throwing pictures in the desk drawer. Right when he was about to pull the drawings from the corkboard he heard a knock. He spun around to see Veronica.

“I’m all settled in,” she said. She immediately spotted the pictures. “Oh wow, you have kids. What are their names?”

Paul squinted at the drawings. The names were hard to read as they had been written by toddlers. “J-am-es,” he sounded out, “and Sar-ah.”

“Mine are Matthew and Andrew. They’re going into fifth and third grade. They grow up so fast.”

“So true,” Paul said and sat in his chair. 

“Is that you and your wife?” 

Paul looked to where she was looking. Underneath the computer monitor was a family portrait. He was horrified, but he picked it up to show it to her, keeping his thumb over Larry’s face. 

“Wow, she’s beautiful. And you’ve lost a lot of weight, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Oh not at all.”

“I’ve struggled over the years with my weight as well. What diet do you use?”

His mind blanked. “The liquid fish diet,” he said, mixing up liquid and pescatarian diets. 

Before Veronica could reply, down the hall, someone shouted, “Larry’s back!” The person strolled into view – Jennie from earlier. “You’re not Larry,” she said. 

“My office is being renovated. HR said I could use this one for the time being.”  

“They didn’t tell me, as usual, but welcome to our humble floor,” Jennie said and left.

Paul made up an excuse for Veronica. “Usually I’m on the second floor, but maintenance is rewiring the cables in my office, so if some people on this floor don’t seem to recognize me, that’s why.”

“Hopefully it gets finished soon. Could you show me upstairs to the executive conference room? I’m meeting with the big boss himself, Mr. Zuckerburg. I’m so nervous. He wants me to debrief him on the project my team wrapped up.”

“Do you mean Mark Zuckerburg, as in the Mark Zuckerburg who founded the company?”

“Who else silly? C’mon, let’s get moving. I don’t want to be late.”Paul escorted her to the executive floor. As soon as they turned the corner off the stairwell, they ran into a fishbowl conference room where they saw the man himself, Mark Zuckerburg. He looked much smaller than Paul expected, though he did have his signature sandy blonde, curly hair. 

“Come in, say hi,” Veronica said.

“I really shouldn’t, I have work to catch up on,” Paul said, but before he could turn around, Veronica had already slid open the glass door and was leading him inside.

She walked to the head of the table. “Mr. Zuckerburg, a pleasure to meet you. I’m Veronica Lancaster and this is one of my team’s colleagues, Paul Miller with Programming.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Paul said, “but I wasn’t scheduled to be part of this meeting. I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Nonsense,” Mark said, “it’s great to meet you both. I love hearing perspectives from team members, especially new ones I’ve never met before. Have a seat.” He gestured towards two empty chairs. 

Paul took a seat, not knowing what else to do. He wanted to jump out of his skin. Mark would surely know what projects a programmer was supposed to be working on. What if he asked Paul about them? 

After a couple minutes of small talk, two Vice Presidents entered the room, Michelle with Marketing and Jeff with Communications. They sat across from Paul and Veronica. 

“Now that everyone is here, we can begin,” Mark started. “Veronica, we’re looking forward to hearing what you’ve been up to.”

She launched into her pitch. “My team has been working with R&D to create an app that will allow users to track their health and post-health accomplishments. We call the new app Healthbook. With enough user data- family history and medical records- this app can predict health emergencies by monitoring health in real time. We collect how much users are actually exercising, what they’re eating, and how their vital signs are doing. Each person is assigned a risk factor. As we roll the app out, we could partner with health insurers, employers, and hospitals. People could earn insurance discounts for using our service. Most importantly, lives could be saved. We expect engagement to increase dramatically after launching when people see results. This will allow Meta to enter the healthcare sector.”

It was difficult to gauge Mark’s reaction. “Any concerns with the project?” he asked Veronica.

“Unfortunately, yes. For users to get the best experience from the app, they will need to give us sensitive, personal data- medical history, location tracking, and ancestry records. This is especially a problem with Europe’s privacy laws.”

Mark turned to Paul. “New guy, what do you think about this?”

“It sounds good to me,” Paul said flatly.

Mark wasn’t satisfied. “You’re a programmer with the company and you don’t have any feedback?”

Paul knew he needed to say something or he’d be fired from the job he’d never shown up to. Fortunately for him, there was no bigger fan of Meta and its products. “Well, sir, if I may say, there has been an uproar about Meta’s involvement in the 2016 election and the perceived problem that Facebook has been invading privacy. People may feel uncomfortable handing over their health data to us. To rebuild trust, we should give the option for users to opt out of our data sharing in the new health app. Most people would ignore the option, but everyone would see we’re trying to do the right thing. For the app, we could have the data stored on the user’s local device so it is not necessarily shared with us. Again, that could be an option but the default would be for Meta servers to store the data.”

“What do you think?” Mark asked the Vice Presidents. 

“Our partners might be disappointed, we all make money from data sharing, but it’s doable,” Michelle said. 

“We could adjust our TOS,” Jeff said.

Mark turned to Veronica. “I was hesitant at first, but Paul convinced me. Veronica, Meta will go forward with your app, Healthbook.”

“Oh my gosh, I’m so honored,” Veronica said, nearly crying. “Our team worked so hard and it paid off.”

“Say, what are you two doing tonight?” Mark asked both of them.

“Nothing besides driving home,” Veronica said.

“I might have company over – my great uncle, Parthulsius,” Paul said, unable to come up with a real name.

“Stay in a hotel tonight,” Mark said to Veronica, “and Paul, cancel those plans with your great uncle. Tonight you’re both playing on the Meta softball team. We need two outfielders to sub in for one worker who is on maternity leave and another who is just plain terrible. I’m tired of losing.”

“My knee locks up. Old hopscotch injury from when I was a kid,” Paul said.

“You can still bat,” Mark said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a Congressman’s Chief of Staff to meet with about some pesky regulations.” He got up and left.  

Michelle and Jeff gave their congratulations as they walked Paul and Veronica back to the stairs. 

“Whelp, better get back to my office,” Paul said. He planned to shut the door and turn off the light while he thought up an excuse to skip the softball game.

“But the staff meeting is about to start,” Veronica said. “It’s down in the auditorium on the first floor. I’ve never been able to attend one in person, only remotely.”

“Unfortunately I have a project to work on,” Paul said. 

“But Meta doesn’t allow work during the staff meeting. Your team could get in trouble.”

“You’re right, I’ll tell – uh, Anthony – we’ll have to reschedule.”

Paul went with Veronica down to the auditorium. A few hundred workers had already arrived. On the stage was a podium with a table next to it with three chairs.

Veronica dragged Paul to the front row and began introducing herself to those around her. Every time she mentioned Paul was showing her around he winced. Yet another person who might wonder who he was. 

At 10 a.m., the senior leaders walked out, Michelle from Marketing, Jeff from Communications, and to everyone’s surprise, Mark. The leaders sat behind the table while Jennie took the podium to start the meeting.

“Good morning, everyone. So nice to see you all this morning.” Jennie went on to make the company announcements – a new carrier for the dental plan, an additional espresso machine in the open-air kitchen, and family members could use the company gym for free. “Now the moment you’ve all been waiting for, the Employee of the Month award.”

Michelle took the podium as the crowd applauded. “I’m honored to present this award to an employee who went above and beyond. She led her team to success and showed initiative on a project we expect to be the future of Meta. That employee is Veronica Lancaster!”

Of course, Paul thought. Everyone clapped as Veronica went to the stage. Jennie handed her a plaque and a pass for the parking spot by the front entrance.

Veronica began her acceptance speech. “Thank you all. And today, I would like to thank someone for helping me out.” Paul slunk down in his chair. “Someone has volunteered their time for me today. As a thank you, and since I’m from out of town, I would like to give my parking pass to Paul Miller. Paul, please stand up.” 

Paul’s face went red as he half-waved to the crowd. Now everyone knew his face and would expect to see his car parked out front. Hopefully his face was as forgettable as he thought.

When the meeting ended, Veronica leaned over in her seat. “Want to go to lunch? I’m buying. I hear there’s an actual chef in the cafeteria. Today he’s making lemon salmon. That should fit both of our diets. Since you’re on the liquid fish diet, you can mash yours up if you need to.”

“I would love to, but I need to run home at lunch to-,” he tried thinking of an excuse, “-water my plants.”

“You don’t just water them when you get home or before you go to work?”

“It’s a new rose bush. It needs water three times a day.”

“You’re watering it too much. I’ve had rose bushes before. With the amount of rain we’ve had, it shouldn’t need extra water.”

“Hmm, I may need to go home to dry out the plants then.”

“If you’re worried about owing me money, forget it. My treat.”

Paul had no other choice.

The cafeteria was packed. It was easy to find right off the lobby. Paul and Veronica got in line and picked up trays. They each ordered the lemon salmon and started searching for an empty table. Jennie was at one by herself and waved them over.

“You can sit with me,” she offered. “The group I usually eat with are out of the office today.”

“Thanks,” Paul said and set his tray down.

“I’m going to grab a glass of water,” Veronica said, leaving Paul alone with Jennie.

“So Paul, where are you visiting us from again?” 

“The second floor.” He began stuffing the fish into his mouth to avoid having to liquefy it.

“Huh, I thought you were from out of town. I go downstairs all the time and have never seen you.” 

“I usually work from home since it’s too loud by my office.”

“Where’s your office located? I might be able to put in a good word and get you a better one.”

Paul visualized the map he created. “By the vending machines.”

“The vending machines were taken out a few months ago,” Jennie said, surprised. “You really must work from home a lot. Lucky duck!” 

Veronica returned with her water and threw a stack of napkins on the table for everyone. 

“Did I miss anything?” she asked.

“Paul, here gets to work from home most of the time. He didn’t realize the vending machines by his office on the second floor were gone.” 

Veronica looked puzzled. “But your office is on the third floor?”

“I get moved around a lot,” Paul said. “I go where I’m told.”

After finishing their lunch, Paul and Veronica headed towards their offices. As they got onto the elevator, a man in his fifties wearing a pinstriped suit got on with them. He looked familiar to Paul.

“Gerald, isn’t it?” Veronica asked him. “I’m from the Chicago Office. My name’s Veronica Lancaster. You’re the Director of Programming, correct?” 

“Yes,” Gerald said and held out his hand.

Upon hearing Gerald’s name, Paul remembered the man. He was Paul’s boss who he interviewed with in-person. Paul instinctively put his hand to his forehead to try to obscure his face.

“What’s your name?” Gerald asked Paul.

“Tim,” Paul said, not wanting to jog his boss’ memory.

“Tim?” Veronica asked.

“That’s my nickname,” Paul said. “It’s what my friends call me.”

“That’s a weird nickname,” Veronica said. “I’m sorry I’ve been calling you the wrong name this entire time. You should have told me.” 

The elevator came to a stop at the second floor and Gerald got off. “It was good to meet both of you,” he said as the doors closed.

As the elevator stopped at the third floor, Veronica said, “It was weird Gerald didn’t know you. Isn’t he your supervisor?”

Paul had to think quickly. “Please keep this between us, but Gerald has early onset Alzheimer’s and he was involved in a car crash. He’s come a long way but his memory isn’t what it used to be.”

“That’s terrible,” Veronica said. “He’s so young.” They stopped in front of Veronica’s office. “I have a lot of work to catch up on, so you may not see me for the rest of the day.” 

“Oh thank God,” Paul blurted out.

“Excuse me?” 

“Oh, I meant that I’m glad you’re busy. I hate when I don’t have anything to work on.”

“I see,” she said.

“Let me know if you need me to show you around anymore,” Paul said and quickly left. Hopefully Veronica wasn’t too suspicious.

Back in his fake office, he got a text from an unknown number. The message read, “Hi, this is Ashley Henderson, Mark’s assistant. What is your jersey size?” 

Mark was actually going to make him play softball. “Medium,” Paul replied.

The assistant dropped the location for the softball game that was starting at 6 p.m. “Let’s win this!” she wrote.

Paul nearly threw his phone across the room. The day had been a complete disaster. His plan was to lay low, show Veronica to her office and then hide out, yet he had met Mark Zuckerburg, been given an Employee of the Month parking spot, ran into his boss, and now had to play softball with the company team. It was only a matter of time before someone found out. What if Gerald wondered who the guy he met on the elevator was? What if Jennie tried visiting him next week? What if Veronica started asking questions about him?

At the end of the day, Paul pulled up directions to the softball stadium. As he went to the elevator, he ran into Veronica.

“Hey,” she said coldly.

“Are you going to the game?” Paul asked cheerfully.

“Ashely sent an invite. I guess I am.”

They stood in silence during the elevator ride. Once the doors opened, Paul said, “I’ll see you over there,” and darted off. Something was definitely off with Veronica.

At the softball field, Mark’s assistant met Paul at the entrance and handed him a jersey. He changed and went onto the field to warm up with his other team members. A few minutes before the game started, Mark arrived. Everyone in the stadium quieted down as he jogged to the dugout and swung a bat back and forth.

At 6 p.m., the umpire blew his whistle and the game started. Paul was up second to bat. He didn’t want to play terribly and draw attention, but he also didn’t want to be too good and be asked back. He needed to run a couple bases before getting out.

The first person at bat struck out once before hitting a fly ball that was easily caught by the first baseman. It was Paul’s turn. He went up to bat. The pitcher wound up his arm and let the ball fly. Paul swung with half his strength and hit the ball dead on- it soared through the air, into the evening sky, and over the fence.

“Home run!” Mark yelled. 

Paul looked stupefied. He had accidentally hit a home run. 

“Don’t just stand there, run!” Mark yelled at him.

Paul made his lap around the bases. As he headed back to the dugout, Veronica pulled him aside.

“I know your secret,” she said.

Paul pretended to be oblivious. “My secret?”

“I spoke to Gerald. I stupidly told him that my father was in a bad car wreck a month ago and that I was sorry he’d gotten into one. He told me he was never in a wreck. Then I asked about you. He said he’d never met you, even though he’s your boss. Then it all clicked for me- being stopped by the security guard in the morning, not having an office, trying to get away from me as fast as possible. You don’t work for Meta, do you?”

“I technically do, just no one else knows I do. The company sends me a paycheck each month.” Paul thought of his rationalizations. “Look, Meta is an evil corporation. They interfered in the election, they harvest data, and they create inferiority complexes in people. You can’t steal from a thief.”

“Meta isn’t completely corrupt, we do good things, provide people with community and entertainment. Good people work for the company. After the game, you either confess or I tell Mark.”

Over the course of the next two hours, without even trying, Paul hit five more home runs, caught eight fly balls, and tagged out four players. He was the best player on the team by far. He finally found something he wasn’t average at.

After the game ended, with Meta winning 14-6, Paul saw Veronica corner Mark by the bleachers. Paul decided he was done with hiding and would accept the consequences for his actions. He jogged up to them.

“Is it true?” Mark asked him.

“Yes,” Paul said and hung his head.

“Are you going to fire him?” Veronica asked.

Mark thought for a minute. “I have very few joys in my life- softball is one. Paul, you’re my MVP. As long as you keep playing we’re square.”

Both Paul and Veronica were equally surprised.

“Square?” Paul stammered.

“You will show up to the office Monday morning. My assistant will find you a place to work. You will not miss a single game, even the ones out of town, unless you want me to get my team of lawyers involved. You won’t have a penny to your name for the rest of your life. And don’t even think about leaving the company. Understood?” Paul nodded as Mark turned towards a private helicopter landing in the outfield. 

“I’m never going to be allowed to leave,” Paul lamented.

“I guess you were right, Meta is corrupt.”

Reade Zodrow has been with UAMS for nine years and lives in Northwest Arkansas with his wife and Chow Chow dog.